Crickets

The crickets chirp in the tall grass. I love their song, and in the evening as the sun sets and I’m walking through the park to my apartment, they keep me company.

The neighborhood cats sit on posts and in doorways to watch me as I make my way up the steps and down the street. I can hear the sounds of children playing as mothers make dinner. I smell garlic and curry wafting from the kitchens of my neighbors.

The family who lives across the ally has had three game nights since I’ve arrived. I hear the father laughing and calling out to his children. I hear his children laughing and calling back, and I wonder if they are playing a Japanese version of Yahtzee, probably not. All I know is that the joy I hear in their voices is authentic, and they have obviously turned off the TV and are enjoying each other’s company.

The family that lives across the ally and beside the “game night” family likes to sing. I hear their daughter who must be ten or so singing at the top of her lungs. Then her father joins in, and they sing together. It is one of the happiest sounds, and I always stop and listen, appreciating their relationship.

The two university students who live above me chant, and I hear their deep voices and the monotone rhythm of their practice. It’s hypnotic and relaxing. Not a bad way to spend a Wednesday evening.

All the mundane, daily things that I take for granted at home become new, living in a foreign country. I love the chance to unplug and take in my surroundings, even as I fall into slumber each night listening to the crickets chirping outside my window.

Chanting

I’m back in Japan, living in a traditional-tatami matted apartment, and it’s Sunday. The sound of chanting reaches me, as I rearrange my living space, yet again.

I’m trying to find the most logical order for things in my new apartment. I have two rooms this year, and one has a lovely sliding door to a fenced patio. It’s small enough that I can reach to hang my clothes from my living room. It’s not large enough for a table and chair, but that’s okay.

The light streams into this room in the morning, even though my curtains are shut. That wasn’t a problem the first morning because a cloud cover dimmed the sunrise. This morning, however, the sun rose without a cloud in the sky, and I realized that having my bed in this room would be a problem.

Why, you might ask, would a glorious sunrise be a problem? When it wakes me at 5:30 am, one whole hour before I wanted to even begin the thinking process, it’s a problem!

I had a cup of coffee and read a couple chapters on my Kindle, but soon the urge to rearrange over took me, and as I ate my breakfast, I began the process of moving my desk and chair, swapping out books for makeup, moving office supplies to one closet and clothes to another. My book bags and boots on the floor of a closet, and my bedding into another. Sounds pretty spacious, right? Wrong!

As I worked, I heard a familiar sound, one I heard last year when we visited temples in Tokyo or on Mt. Takao, the sound of a deep voice chanting. The authenticity seemed to ring like a bell, as I moved table and chair, rug and futon. All I lacked was incense to complete the mood.

I have the windows open. They let in a cool breeze. It also allows the serenity of the chanting to enter my space and fill my head with a calm that all Sundays should bring.

If I could sit in the lotus position, I would. I’d meditate on world peace, and let the chanting carry my mind to places with fresh air and the sound of running water. As it is, I sit in my chair and write. Another form of meditation, and a sense of calm is my reward.

Smells

Smells. They define a space, a place, an emotion. The smell of cotton candy and popcorn define a fair, and the smell of lavender can define relaxation.

Smells. The smells of travel can sometimes be exotic, inviting, but sometimes they can be overwhelming. That was exactly my experience at 35,000 feet on Delta flight DL167.

I flew from Seatac to Tokyo Japan, a ten hour flight, and halfway through the flight, I realized I would be living with a certain smell. What smell you ask? Well, let’s just say it’s one you don’t want following you around. It was the smell of urine. Lovely.

On long international flights like this one, I try to take a walk every two hours or so, and what better destination on a long flight than the restroom. The first two strolls were a refreshing relief. It felt good to stretch my legs. It wasn’t until the third trip that my nose was assaulted. By the forth trip, my nose burned, by the fifth, my eyes watered, and try as hard as I might, I could not hold my breath until I was done with my business. Thankfully the soap dispenser never ran out, or I would have panicked!

What dismayed me the most was that the odor seemed to follow me like a cloud. It came with me through the Narita airport, and onto the train to Tokyo. It was my shoes. I wanted to blame the woman sitting next to me, the man who walked down the isle, but I had to admit it finally. My soles were apparently absorbent enough to soak up the lovely aroma of flight DL167’s restroom.

It followed me onto the Narita Express bound for the Keio-Hachioji train. I couldn’t deny it. I smelled, but what could I do? I did what any self-respecting traveler would do. I closed my eyes, bowed my head, and pretended to be asleep. Ninety percent of all Japanese train riders do this, so I hid behind closed eyes.

Lucky for me, by the time we reached Kogakuin University, I had walked most of the smell off of my shoes, and my colleague, Dr. Aoki, didn’t notice anything at all! But best of all, I didn’t define my new apartment with the smell of urine. It smells of tatami mats, and that’s another more pleasant story.

Golden Maple--Poetry on the Bus Project 2014

One of my poems has been selected for the Poetry on the Bus Project 2014! I'm so excited. This a poem that I wrote in Japan, where I thought of home a great deal. :) The photo was taken at Hachiojo Festival on Ginko Odori (Avenue). So, yes, it's of a ginkgo and not a maple, but it is golden, n'est pas?

Here's the poem:

Golden  Maple

A dry autumn breeze

plays in the branches

of our golden maple.

I gaze to the east and pray

for rain, a light, restorative

smattering.

I watch the silhouette of trees

billowing above

our rooftop,

while morning light paints

the sky peach and cream,

a revelation.

One Perfect Breath

I loved my experience in Japan last fall. This poem came from that time between waking and sleeping, when your thoughts are a jumble of creative imaginings waiting to be explored.

One Perfect Breath

I fall.

Slumber

catches me,

cradles

my perfect breaths,

my weary bones.

I float

on a river.

It flows by the night

window,

sheltering the white

Egret, the slender,

dark carp.

I rise

a murder of crows

calls,

draws my perfect

breath short.

My sleepy eyes

open to reveal

the clear

day.